Chapter 8 #2
“It’s our best shot.” He set the phone back on the console. Something hardened in his voice. “I’m not letting this go, Britta. Whatever’s happening—whoever’s behind this—I’m going to find out. And I’m going to end it.”
The certainty in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. Not fear, but something that felt like safety and a delicious kind of danger mixed together.
He’d meant what he’d said on the dock. He was keeping her safe. No matter what it cost him.
Britta stepped closer. Near enough now that she could see the exhaustion etched around his eyes. The tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw flexed like he was grinding his teeth.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
West’s gaze gentled. “For what?”
“You know. Everything.”
The sunset—what remained of it—caught his face. The purple bruise on his chin. The healing split in his lip. The fierce concentration that never quite left his expression even when he tried to relax.
He was still here. Still choosing to protect her. Still putting himself between her and every threat that emerged from the darkness.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Her romance novels always had this moment. The one where the heroine stopped overthinking and started acting. Where she took the risk and kissed the hero and let herself be vulnerable even though it terrified her.
Britta had written that scene dozens of times.
What if…
She took a breath, put her hands on his shoulders, rose on her toes, and pressed her lips to his.
West went completely still.
For one horrible heartbeat, she thought she’d made a mistake. That he didn’t want this. That he’d pull away and remind her that he valued his freedom and relationships weren’t for him and she’d just made everything impossibly awkward.
Then his hand came up.
Cupped her face.
His hold was gentle despite the calluses roughening his palm. Despite the strength in his fingers. Despite everything that made him dangerous.
His other arm circled her waist. Drew her against that amazing chest.
And he kissed her back.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
Certain.
He kissed her as if he knew exactly what he was doing, diving in, pulling her close.
Oh. Oh. And sure, she’d wondered what it might feel like to kiss a man like this, but…
And then he deepened his kiss. His hand slid into her hair, tangling in the wind-messed strands. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her flush against his bare chest. Warm skin. Strong muscle. His heartbeat thundering beneath her palm.
Britta made a sound—surprise or pleasure or both. She couldn’t tell. Couldn’t think. Could only feel.
The taste of him, salty and something uniquely West.
The feel of him, solid and real and impossibly strong.
The sound of his breathing, ragged, matching hers.
The smell of the ocean, of freedom and adventure, embedded in his skin.
He backed her against the captain’s seat, set her on it, and stepped closer. Her hands palmed his chest, traced the lines of muscle, the ridges of scars, the heat radiating from his skin.
His lips moved against hers—demanding, possessive—his hand finally shifting behind her neck to hold her closer. Like he’d been holding back for two days and couldn’t anymore. Like the leash on his self-control had finally snapped.
The fading light painted them in gold and shadow. The stars brightened overhead. The water lapped against the hull in a steady rhythm that matched her heartbeat. The world narrowed to just this—his mouth on hers, his hand in her hair, his body solid and warm and real.
And this, this was the freedom she’d always longed for.
West’s kiss finally gentled. Slowed. His hand around her neck loosened. His thumb traced her jaw, rough calluses catching on her skin. Tender. Like she was something precious. Something worth protecting.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His breathing came hard. His eyes had gone dark—pupils blown wide. His hand cupped her face again.
“Britta.” Her name came out rough. Raw. Like he was trying to find words and couldn’t. “I shouldn’t have—”
“I kissed you.” Her hands slid up to frame his face. Her fingers traced the bruise on his chin, the scrape on his cheekbone, the sharp line of his jaw.
Then she kissed him again. Softer this time. A question and an answer all at once.
He responded immediately. His arms wrapped around her, pulled her closer. One hand splayed across her lower back. The other tangled in her hair again. He kissed her like he was drowning and she was air. Like this was the only thing that mattered.
He finally pulled away, his forehead pressed against hers. His breathing hadn’t steadied. His hands shook slightly where they touched her.
“I’ve wanted to do that,” he said quietly, “since I saw you at the party and you came up, worried about me, and apologized. Which you totally didn’t have to do, but…wow, Britta. What’s going on here?”
The sky had deepened to twilight now. Purple-black overhead with stars blazing. The ocean stretched out in every direction—dark water reflecting starlight.
Beautiful. Private. Perfect.
“I don’t know. But…”
The sound of a motor cut through the darkness.
West’s entire body stilled.
Britta felt him shift instantly—operator mode activated in a heartbeat. He set her behind him. His hand went to his hip, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there because he was shirtless and unarmed and had just been kissing her senseless.
Oops.
The boat’s sound grew louder. Cutting through the water. Heading straight for them.
West’s muscles coiled. His breathing evened out. “Get below deck.”
“West—”
“Please, Britta. Just until I know…what I’m dealing with.”
Whether he was going to have to save her life again.
All the fierce joy from the kiss vanished like it had never existed.
The boat emerged from the darkness. A small powerboat. Single occupant. Running lights cutting through the night.
“Go.”
She took a breath.
“And if you hear something…violent, lock yourself in the cabin until you hear the voice of someone you know.”
“You’re scaring me.”
He turned, kissed her forehead, then practically propelled her down the galley steps.
She was halfway down the stairs when he slammed the door shut.
The powerboat slowed. The motor cut to an idle. She stared out the port window and saw the boat coast alongside the dive boat, a man at the helm, one hand on the wheel.
“West,” the man said as the engine died, “we need to talk.”
The momentum carried him the final few feet until the boats bumped gently together.
She didn’t see West, but his voice tensed. “About what?”
The man grabbed the railing of the dive boat. Steadied himself. His expression was serious. Grim. “Alan Martin. He’s in custody.”
Silence.
A pause.
Who was Alan Martin?
“You’re sure?” West’s voice came out rough. Controlled.
“Yes. She’s safe from him—for now.”
West’s hand flexed at his side. “Then it’s over.”
“Not yet, but almost.” The man’s voice dropped. “That’s why I’m here.”
“What do you mean?” West growled.
The night air suddenly felt colder. The stars seemed dimmer. The gentle rocking of the boat felt ominous instead of peaceful.
“It’s time to hand her over to the Secret Service,” he said. “You’re not enough to protect her. You need to bring her in to federal protection.”
Oh.
Everything in Britta went still.
Bring her in.
To federal protection.
To the Secret Service.
Her pulse spiked. Her hands fisted. She leaned forward—listening harder.
“Her detail was compromised.” West’s voice. Rough. Defensive. “Martinez is dirty. How am I supposed to trust the Secret Service?”
“Martinez isn’t dirty. He was neutralized on the boat, just like we were. I’ve met her detail—Chávez, Patterson. They’re clean.”
Silence.
Britta’s breathing stopped.
West was arguing. Which meant he didn’t want to hand her over. Which meant he was fighting for her. For them. For whatever had just started between them on the deck under the stars.
“What if they make a mistake?” West’s voice dropped. Quieter. “What if she gets hurt because I’m not there?”
“What if she gets hurt because you’re one man trying to do the job of three? What if your pride gets her killed?”
Britta pressed her hand to her mouth.
The man—clearly one of West’s teammates—was right. Tactically, he was right. One operative couldn’t protect against whatever was coming. She needed resources. A full detail. Federal coordination.
But the thought of going back—back to the Secret Service, back to her father, back to the controlled, watched, managed life she’d escaped—broke something open in her.
She’d hung up on her father. She’d chosen West. She’d kissed him and told him she wanted him despite every logical reason to walk away.
And now West was going to hand her back.
Please don’t agree. Please keep fighting. Please choose me.
Then West’s voice cut through. Clear. Certain.
“Okay. Yes. You’re right. I’ll bring her in.”
The words hit like a fist to her chest.
The cabin tilted. Or maybe Britta tilted. Her hands shook. Her vision blurred. She couldn’t get a full breath.
He’d agreed.
Without asking her. Without consulting her. Without giving her a choice.
Just like her father. Making decisions for her. About her. Deciding what was best without caring what she wanted.
She’d kissed him.
She’d chosen him over her father. Over safety. Over everything logical and smart.
And he’d given up on her after one conversation.
Heat flashed through her chest. Sharp. Burning. Anger replacing the hurt because fury was easier. Fury protected better than heartbreak.
Britta stood. Her legs wobbled but held. She looked around the cabin—small, cramped, dim. The porthole window on the far wall. Built-in storage compartments.
She would not be brought in.
She would not be delivered to her father like a runaway child.
She was not cargo. She was not a problem to be solved.
She’d hung up on the president. She’d stood her ground. She’d been brave.
And she wasn’t stopping now.
Britta moved to the storage compartments. Opened them carefully—no sound, no creaking hinges. Found dive equipment stacked neatly. Wet suits. Masks. Fins.